


Don't Die Digging

by FancyKid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Sandor Clegane, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Secret Relationship, The Quiet Isle, driftwood is a dumb name for a horse, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:44:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyKid/pseuds/FancyKid
Summary: A brief look at Sandor's new life on the Quiet Isle - and at the secret he has been keeping from his new brothers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to George RR Martin.
> 
> This is inspired by the song 'Don't Die Digging' by The Graduate:
> 
> "It's just another lonely night that I can't sleep  
> You know it's scary how much I need you lying next to me  
> I dug a hole that I can't seem to climb out from  
> So much to carry but I won't stop until I know it's done  
> And it was harder than I ever expected  
> But I seemed so calm and collected  
> Think I'm still recovering  
> Trying to find a way to stop digging"
> 
> I've had this idea in my head for about two years and for some reason, I have only now felt the need to get it out of my system.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/gp/182352874@N02/96DT5s)

He’d never sworn to anything in his life. Not to Tywin. Not Cersei. Not even to Joffrey, though he sometimes had to remind himself of that.

No, Sandor Clegane had never been the type of man to pledge himself to much of anything. 

But he had sworn here - sworn he would take a vow of silence. In his mind, it was only because he and the Elder Brother had an understanding.

Sandor didn’t care about the vows. Didn’t care about pleasing the damned gods. And for some lengthy, exhausting and nauseatingly pious reason, the old septon didn’t care that he was harboring a fugitive of the crown.

The Elder Brother just thought, in light of that specific circumstance, it would be wise if he kept quiet. Sandor couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.

So he pretended he was a monk atoning for his sins, and the Elder Brother pretended the Hound was dead and buried. 

Sandor had walked by his cairn in the lichyard, his hound’s helm the only remaining indication of the fierce and violent person he had been. It was a fine helm of the best quality and he was surprised it took so long for someone to steal it away for themselves. Not like he could find it in himself to care. It wasn’t his anymore. 

Sandor didn’t know who he had become, but he certainly wasn’t the same. The wound in his leg and the Stark girl had seen to that. 

He’d fallen into a fevered stupor under that tree, not sure which way was up, not sure how long he’d been lying there, not even sure of his bloody name. The next thing he knew, he was weeping like a green boy in the arms of a complete stranger, telling him all the things he didn’t want to think about and all of the things he didn’t even know about himself.

It could have been another lifetime that passed before he was aware of anything again. But when he did finally come back to himself, he woke in a strange place. There were dressings wrapped around his head, his chest, his leg. He was in oceans of pain and he didn’t know where he was. He had a thousand questions and his heart raced to learn what had transpired between then and the last time he was conscious to have put him in such a situation. But with the memory of a fever dream, he stilled. In the dream, he had felt a cool, soft hand on the burnt ruin of his face, a familiar voice resounding in his ear, urging him to wake up. She could have been there, in the very room with him, that was how real it had felt. But with the mere thought of it, his breathing steadied. He might not have known where he was, or who had patched him up, but he was alive. 

And for reasons Sandor didn’t yet understand, for the first time in his whole sorry life, he felt clean.

\- - - 

Living on the Quiet Isle, Sandor had an excuse to wear a hood, to cover his face in a woolen scarf. In doing so, it was the first time in his life that he looked just like everyone else. Surprisingly, the silence was simple enough to get used to. Wasn’t as if he had anything to say to the great lot of fools that occupied the island.

Sandor knew could sigh and roll his eyes all he wanted, but even he couldn’t lie to himself. It wasn’t so bad. There was food to eat, ale and cider to drink, work to be done, and a pallet to sleep on every night. Though it has been some time since he used it for his own rest. The dirt floor in his humble cottage fit his needs just fine, given his recent circumstances which he still could not wrap his head around.

But even though he was on the ground, he was finally sleeping through the night. It had taken some time.

After his wounds had healed, after he was starting to limp about on his own, Elder Brother moved him to the cloisters with the other brothers. They’d been kind, or wary, enough to give him a pallet at the end of the structure, off in the corner. It was quickly found out that this wasn’t a situation that benefitted anyone on the isle, least of all him. The pallet was comfortable enough, the rough spun bedding was itchy, but clean. Even still, he couldn’t get to sleep and it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part. The cider was good. The mead even better. But it was portioned out so sparingly as if the gods had pissed in the barrels themselves. One pint. If he was lucky, two. But it was never enough to quiet his mind as he slept. On the off chance he drifted off, it wasn’t for long. Sooner or later if he didn’t wake himself up halfway through the night, it would be a silent brother kneeling on the floor beside him, shaking him awake, a finger to his lips. 

When Sandor _did_ get to sleep, it meant a restless night for everyone else. 

He could see the frustration in their eyes beneath their hoods, the blatant and unguarded annoyance in some. Worse than all that was the unsettling and all too frequent glances of pity. In a past life, he knew he had the ability to make them all feel fear rather than pity. But that part of him was gone, dead and buried under the earth with the rest of his sorry life. All he could find in himself to do in those moments was to turn away. The only one who didn’t look at him with anything other than companionable interest was the Elder Brother. 

He had only spent a few weeks in the cloisters before Elder Brother called him into his hermit hole. The man asked pointed questions to which Sandor need only shake or nod his head. By the end of their brief exchange, it was agreed that Sandor would be staying in one of the women’s cottages. They were all empty for the time being, the last visitors hadn’t the need to stay very long, being on some quest or another that Elder Brother refused to speak to him about. Settled on the east side of the isle, it was colder by the cottages, with a near constant breeze coming off the bay. But Sandor didn’t care.

It was a situation that could benefit everyone: he could spend his nights in solitude and he wouldn’t wake up his fellow sinners with his nightmares.

\- - - 

As the autumn nights grew longer, he was finding his days more and more peaceful. He knew it had to be the fact that he finally getting some sleep, but the work helped too. Since his leg had healed, since his mind had quieted some, his fingers itched for something to do. Elder Brother had shown him the vegetable garden with the old men on their knees picking out the weeds. Sandor only had to give him a look to let him know that wasn’t for him. Sandor had suggested with a lift of an eyebrow that he work in the wine cellar, but Elder Brother wasn’t shy in telling him why that wasn’t a good idea.

It happened by accident, the digging. As he hobbled along the steep paths of the hill up to the Elder Brother’s hermit hole, he’d found two of the brothers struggling to break into the ground nearing the lichyard. Nearly two hours later on his return, he was staggered to see that they had barely made any progress. He felt a laugh hitch in his throat and before he could give it another thought, he’d taken a shovel away from one of them and got to work. He felt more than saw their aversion to his disruption. But as he moved, more quickly and efficiently on his own than the two of them combined, they seemed to accept their futility and got out of his way. 

Deeper and deeper he dug, higher and higher the pile of dirt rose along side him. He remembered how badly it had hurt. His leg screamed beneath him. His blood pounded in his ear. But soon he found a rhythm. His breathing was heavy, but even. His heart was strong. His back ached with the strain, his muscles burned with the laborious task after weeks of sickness and neglect. 

And it felt good. 

Since that day, no other man had taken up the spade. 

It was simple work for a man of his skill; punishing, but tedious and mind numbing, which was exactly what he was looking for.

Sandor had stopped wondering what was happening in the world outside of the isle. In such a secluded place, it was easy to forget that there was a war waging beyond the water. But with the constant influx of bodies washing up on the shore of the Trident, soldiers and smallfolk alike, the fact was never far from anyone’s mind. 

These days though, Sandor hardly thought about it at all. He worked all day long until he was bone weary and ready to drop come time for their evening meal, but it was then that his heart began to race again. His leg shook under the long table, more with anticipation than overwork. Dinner wasn’t so bad. The act of eating at least gave him something to do. But the prayers - he nearly cracked the wooden spoon in his hand thinking about the prayers to come. They’d been tedious before. But now it was all Sandor could do not to groan audibly at the time spent in silent prayer among the other brothers in the sept. 

It was hours after the sun had gone down that he finally had the chance to leave. Each evening, it was all he could do not to run the distance to the cottages. First, he wasn’t sure his leg was even up to the task yet. Second, he didn’t want to draw any more attention than was necessary. No one came to bother him down in his cottage and he needed to make sure it stayed that way.

He - _they_ had to keep it secret.

Sandor stepped carefully down the path to the cottages. The breeze was colder than usual andfought to extinguish the dim light of his beeswax candle.

In what seemed like far too long of a time, he was there, outside his door, his hand pressed against the driftwood boards, and he froze.

Several weeks had gone by since the first night and he still wasn’t used to it. He forced himself to wait until his breathing steadied, until his head stopped spinning. A bead of sweat dripped down the back of his neck, despite the cold.

With a catch in his throat, he found himself again and pushed the door open.

His candle was still bright enough to cast away the shadows of the small round room. It’s soft light cast a glow on everything inside. A straw pallet big enough for one, it’s rough blankets pulled taught, a warm fur lying at the foot of it. Wood for the fire he’d have to build as soon as he could get his hands on it to warm up the place. A small table and two rickety chairs made of driftwood. 

And her, the flame catching the red in her hair, a warm, welcoming smile on her lips as she spoke.

“How are you this evening, Sandor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all comments or thoughts are welcome here! This will be finished hopefully in a short couple of weeks. I would love to see what you think, and if you have any predictions on what might be coming next.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so before we get any answers, there are going to be a lot more questions.
> 
> Like, how did she get there? How is she staying hidden? Why do they feel so comfortable with each other? Where was she before this? 
> 
> Answers will come in time. I just ask that you hold out and try to enjoy this brief tale for what is it right now. :)

They slept on their sides, facing each other, though it took some time to be so comfortable in doing so. Sansa was more willing that he was, at first. She pushed him to talk, pushed him to be open with her, to let himself be comfortable. Finally, after it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere, he’d given her what she wanted.

Sandor had insisted on her having the pallet. At her insistence, he’d stolen extra blankets and furs from the empty, neighboring cottages to make a comfortable enough bed on the floor for him.

That’s where they were now, facing one another a few feet apart on their separate makeshift beds, a fire warm at their feet. 

“Tell me about the time you had to keep Arya wrapped in blankets to make sure she wouldn’t murder you in your sleep.”

Sandor shook his head, “What else is there to say about that one? You know it by heart by now.”

“I know,” she insisted shyly, “but I like the way you tell it.”

So he told her. The story only took a minute, as she knew, but he couldn’t resist her when she asked something of him. She knew it too.

Sandor was only permitted to speak during confession. And in his mind, that’s what speaking to her was. It made all the days of silence worth it. Elder Brother had known everything about him. Before Sandor took his vow, they’d talked about it all, the similarities in their own stories even. But talking to _her_ \- it was different, better. Yes, Elder Brother had a similar life. But Sansa, she had _been_ there. She had known. He was actually able to sleep with her so close to him. It was the only thing that stopped his panicked waking through the night.

When he finished his tale, the sound of her laughter made his heart swell and even he couldn’t help but feel the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t worried about anyone hearing her over the wind outside. Her delight was infectious, but brief. Laughter and smiles never lasted long these days.

Sansa’s voice was quiet, and her smiled faded quickly as she said, “I wonder where she is now.”

Sandor hummed under his breath, “Wherever she is, she’s bound to be giving somebody hell.”

Sansa gave the briefest of smiles and turned onto her back with a heavy sigh.

This was how it was most of the time. When he came back to the cottage, they would talk about the events of the day, reminisce on stories of their combined past, but then, too soon, things would turn sour and they’d be reminded of why they shouldn’t feel so free to laugh. Half the people in their stories were dead or presumed dead. The world around them was a burning heap of war-torn ruins and neither of them ever imagined they’d be where they currently were in their respective lives.

Sandor was still on his side, watching her as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind a million miles away. He could have fallen asleep like that, just watching her. But then she spoke.

“Do you think you’ll stay here forever?”

“Hmm, here? On the Quiet Isle?”

She nodded, still not looking at him.

He sighed and gave her an honest answer, as if there were another option, “I don’t know.”

She turned her head to meet his eye, “Are you welcome to?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, still trying to keep a hold on his sanity every time she looked at him, and he nodded, “The Elder Brother says its up to me. I can stay for as long as I want or I can leave whenever I want.”

“But you don’t want to leave.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not much out there for me. What else am I going to do?”

The look she gave him, a blink and slight cock of her head, told him he was free to continue.

He sat up on his elbow. “The only thing I ever learned how to do was fight,” he gestured down to his mangled leg. “Can’t fight. What good is leaving going to do if I can’t even fight?”

“Would you even want to, if you could?”

Sandor looked back down at her and she stared up at him as innocently as ever. Hells, it scared him sometimes to think how much she knew about him. And there he was, telling her even more now of his own volition. He couldn’t blame it on being out of his head with drink anymore. He had already admitted to himself that he talked because he wanted her to listen. And now there was no going back.

He let out a breath and laid down on his back, watching the smoke from the fire drift lazily up through the hole in the roof, knowing her eyes were on him while she spoke.

“Used to say it was the sweetest thing, killing. Do you not feel that way anymore?”

He let out another sigh, regretting bringing it up.

Either way, she answered for him. “Well, its clear you don’t,” she said with a slight chuckle that turned his insides to jelly. “But why?” she went on, “Is it the digging?”

He knew where she was going with this. But he couldn’t stop her.

“What did the Elder Brother tell you? That you should see it as digging a grave for -”

“-for every person I killed, I know.” He interrupted, trying not to roll his eyes at the trite line. It was a very romantic idea. He wasn’t surprised she like it so much.

“As silly as you think it is, I think it’s helped you. As much as you don’t want to admit it to yourself, you are different.” She let out a sigh and turned back toward him, pulling her fur up over her shoulders and closing her eyes. She was ready for sleep, he knew. “I think its good, you being here. You don’t have to take orders from anyone. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“And you’re here,” he said it before he could stop himself and then immediately wished he had.

She opened her eyes, and he swore he could see a hint of red come to her cheeks in the dimness of the firelight.

“And I’m here,” she smiled, “because of you. Don’t forget that.”

She closed her eyes once more, her hand resting next to her cheek as she settled in for sleep.

He would never tell anyone who he shared his cottage with every night. In doing so, he’d probably get himself exiled off the island. No, the little bird was his secret. He didn’t know how long he would have her, and he wasn’t gong to waste a moment.

She always fell asleep quickly, and he could tell when she was finally out. Sandor would sigh, finally relaxing enough to appreciate the sight before him.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the shape of her hand, hovering just over her skin, never touching her. And he would never touch her, not after what happened on the first night she came to him. It was a like he knew he couldn’t - wouldn’t cross.

He’d keep his eyes on her face, memorizing it, seeing how she’d changed, how she’d grown in the years since he left King’s Landing. He could still see the shape of her as his eyes closed of their own accord as he made his way to his own deep, and blessedly dreamless, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, no answers!  
> Just a bit of fluff to get us to the action that takes place tomorrow. 
> 
> Well, their tomorrow. Not mine. I have work ha. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for babbling. I'll update as soon as I can and I thank you so much for reading this thing.
> 
> If you'd like to comment, it would make me very happy :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes...

Driftwood is a stupid fucking name for any horse, let alone one of the strongest and fiercest warhorses Sandor had ever known in his life.

He would have told Elder Brother that much if he had known they’d changed Stranger’s name _before_ Sandor had taken his vow. 

“Brother Gillam chose the name,” Elder Brother had told him with just the hint of a smirk on his lips, “so don’t direct your ire toward me, Brother Sandor.”

He supposed he might have done so, too, if Stranger hadn’t gotten to the other man first. Who in their right mind would have attempted to _geld_ the beast? As far as Sandor was concerned, Brother Gillam had deserved to get his ear bitten off.

But Sandor didn’t push the issue after that. Stranger had made his presence known without Sandor’s help, though Brother Gillam reluctantly sought out his assistance on any occasion he needed to tend to the animal.

That’s where he was now, loading fresh hay into Stranger’s stall, when he caught a flash of red on the other side of the horse’s rump.

Sandor’s eyes widened, but he made no move. Not until he’d heard Gillam’s steps retreating from the stable.

Without wasting a moment, Sandor swung around the other side of his horse and saw her. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her for her stupidity. His voice was even cruel to his own ears when he snapped at her. “What are you doing out here?” Sansa’s eyes were wide. He had obviously frightened her with his harsh tone, muffled though it was through his scarf. “You shouldn’t be in here. You could be seen.” 

“I won’t be seen,” she looked at him incredulously, “I’m sorry, I just, I had to see you.”

She took a step closer and he lifted his head over Stranger’s back -the horse oddly unperturbed by the presence of the strange woman in his stall - and he let out a breath. Gillam hadn’t returned, but Sandor knew he only had a moment before he did.

He turned back to her, his voice calmer now, “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“It, it can’t,” she stuttered, “Sandor, I, I don’t know what’s happening.” 

It was the way her voice cracked that gave him pause. He looked at her again, forcing himself to see her this time. She was crying.

Sandor’s shoulders sagged. He took another step toward her, fingers twitching in their need to comfort her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him, eyes as clear as the sky outside. “I have to leave.”

“Leave?” He took a step back, never expecting those words from her. “You can’t leave. Where are you going to go?”

It was then he heard it. Brother Gillam had come back into the stable. Sandor froze, turned from Sansa and left the stall. Gillam wasn’t looking in his direction. Sandor turned back to usher Sansa out behind him, but she was already gone. She must have snuck out when his back was turned and exited through the back door of the stable.

Sandor let out a huff of breath in relief. So she hadn’t been seen.

But with the way Brother Gillam kept his eyes trained to the ground told him what he needed to know. 

He’d heard them talking.

\- - - 

“Would you like to take confession, Brother Sandor?”

Before Sandor could get away after evening prayers, Elder Brother had caught him up and all but dragged him back to his hermit’s hole. Sandor had known immediately what it was about and he cursed the seven heavens that he had not done something about it earlier. What had Sansa meant, that she had to leave? Everything in his whole being wanted to go to his cottage and see if she was still there, to see what she was so upset about. But he didn’t want to draw anymore attention to himself after what Brother Gillam had overheard in the stable. _But what if she had already left?_

Sandor groaned and removed the scarf from his face. “What is it?”

Elder Brother could obviously sense his impatience, but he paid it no mind, a gentle smile on his mouth all the while. “Is there something you’d like to talk about? Something you’d like to tell me, perhaps?”

Sandor sat, unmoving, staring at him.

Elder Brother did the same and stared right back. “Brother Gillam came to me today.”

Sandor ground his teeth and rolled his eyes to the ceiling of the small inhabitance. 

“I know you’re not fond of the man, Sandor, but he seemed concerned about you. And if what he says is true, then I’m afraid I have to agree with him.”

Sandor wiped a hand over his jaw, already knowing where the conversation was going, and wishing to all of the seven hells that he could just be left in peace. 

“What did he say?”

Elder Brother watched him with the old eyes of an owl. “He heard you talking to someone in the stable.”

“Bloody snitch,” Sandor spat and he stood, unable to sit any longer as he paced the small space. “What else did he say?”

Elder Brother shook his head, “Nothing of consequence.”

“Then why come to me about this? I’m fine.”

“I know,” Elder Brother nodded gladly, “I _see_ that you’re fine. You’ve seemed to settle in to your place here on the isle and we are all glad to have you. I trust you’re sleeping through the night, now?”

Sandor’s heart started to pound in his chest. He didn’t want to hear it. “I am. For once in my life,” he finally said, a warning in his tone.

Elder Brother was calm as still water. “And perhaps that is because of what I suggested to you a few weeks back?”

Sandor shook his head, “Don’t.”

“About speaking your feelings and thoughts aloud? As if someone you cared for was there with you?”

Sandor felt all of the breath leave him and his tone turned from threatening to pleading. “ _Please_ , don’t do this.”

“Sandor, when I suggested you speak as though Sansa Stark were with you, I-”

Sandor cut him off, but there was nothing threatening in his tone any longer. “ _Enough_.”

Elder Brother went on, striking the final blow. “I didn’t think it would go this far.”

And with just a couple of words, the first time in weeks, Sandor felt empty. He felt nothing, as if a part of him was just pulled from his chest. He stared out the open door, watching the cold wind pick up and the clouds roll in to cover the brightness of the moon. There was going to be a storm tonight. And he was glad of it.

Elder Brother came behind him then, a hand on his shoulder. “Sandor, I’m so sorry but I need to hear you say it.”

His voice didn’t sound like his own, “Say what?”

“I need you to tell me that you know the truth - tell me you know she isn’t really here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you saw it coming I think. But this story isn't finished yet. I would be oh so happy if you could let me know what you think!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lesson one in pretending you aren't crazy: Don't tell anyone you don't think you're crazy.

_A few months earlier..._

\- - - 

It was madness, what Elder Brother had suggested. 

“You want me to talk as if Sansa Stark were in the room with me? Have you lost your mind?”

“I’ve not,” he gave Sandor a wry smile, “but I appreciate your concern.”

Elder Brother had never been intimidated by Sandor’s bark, a fact that he at varying times either appreciated or loathed; this exact moment falling on the latter.

The man went on, much to Sandor’s dismay. “I only thought that given your history of divulgence with the girl that it may help put your mind at ease if you pretended to do so again.” 

First, Sandor was awash in the burning heat of shame that came along every time he was reminded that the man before him knew everything he never wanted anyone to know. He still hated on himself for having no control in his fevered state. He was ashamed to think on the way he must have acted, all of the sorry pathetic things he must have said.

“I’m not guaranteeing it will work, Sandor. But at this point,” he gestured toward the bruise-like marks underneath Sandor’s tired eyes, “it can’t rightly hurt, can it?” 

He went to lie in his new quarters that first night, pleased to be alone, pleased not to have to ignore the looks and trepidation from his fellow brothers. But he was still unable to sleep the first few nights.

In the event, it was nothing but desperation for a bit of shut eye, or so he convinced himself, that made him finally speak to her. His voice sounded strange in his ear, speaking out to the darkness, knowing there would be no response, but talking as if there could be anyway. He didn’t remember what he had said that first night, alone in the dark, feeling foolish all the while. But soon he was tired, his head felt a bit more clear, his eyes struggled to stay open. And he had gone to sleep, thinking of her.

He woke, still too early, in the morning, but feeling a bit more alive than he had in weeks past. So he kept at it, awkward as it felt. He talked of nothing of consequence, of his deepest fears, of anything that came to mind, all the while knowing that if Sansa Stark were really there in the room with him, he’d have been silent as a rock. It was the same for a few nights; a few hours of sleep, nightmares gradually dulling in their horror.

But then came the dream. 

Not his usual nightmares full of red and green flames and the ghosts of his past. This dream, it was different. 

He had been walking, in this dream, walking alone along a path in a wood. He couldn’t say exactly where he was, and he was surprised to acknowledge that he didn’t care to find out. His mind was clear and he felt no fear nor loneliness. It went on for a time before he came to the split in the road. The path to the right was a wide and open road, sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees that clustered along the sides. The left was different. Nothing more than a deer path through the wood. He couldn’t say what it was that made him choose, but without a second look, he’d gone left. He walked on for some time, the only sound was the tall grass that parted with each of his long strides. Soon, the light had changed. It didn’t get dark, but a mist began to fall from above. Still, he felt no fear, continuing on alone, until the mist became an all encompassing grey fog. He went on for as long as he dared before he had to stop. He could no longer see the deer path ahead of him, let alone his own feet on the ground. And still, he was unafraid. 

He heard something then, a sound in the distance. Footsteps. Steady, lighter than his own, and coming toward him. His heart began to race. Not from fear, he realized, but from anticipation. He felt the corner of his mouth lift in the hint of a smile. 

And he woke in the dark knowing he wasn’t alone. The serenity of his dream had all but vanished. He wiped his hand before his eyes, trying to clear his head of the heavy, calmness that followed him out of it. He _knew_ someone was there. His hand reflexively went for the knife he no longer kept at his waist.

“Fuck,” he stood, finally, his back pressed to the wall, hands clenched in fists at his sides. “Who’s there?” He croaked, his voice hoarse from sleep.

The voice that responded was one he never would have expected, but the only one he knew it could have been. It was soft, feminine, and fearful. “Where - where am I?”

Sandor’s heart threatened to beat out of his throat. He didn’t dare say another another word. His hands worked autonomously, reaching in the dark for the firewood, the flint and steel. It took him more than a few tries to get it to light with his palms sweating and shaking, but soon enough, the small room was alight in fire glow. 

And he almost screamed.

Sansa _bloody_ Stark was there, cowering at the other side of the small space.

She blinked her eyes, once, twice, before seeing him clearly, recognizing him in the instant her eyes adjusted to the light.

“It’s you,” she breathed, her shoulders relaxing as she came toward the middle of the room. The tension fell away from her as she caught her breath.

Sandor couldn’t say the same for himself. “How - how the fuck - _how are you here_? How did you get here?”

She shook her head, looking at him in amazement, “I don’t know.”

“What are you doing here? How did you find this place?”

She didn’t seem concerned with answering his questions. She stepped forward and Sandor stepped back, his back once more against the wall.

“It’s you,” she said again, a fond smile tugging at her lips.

“What are you doing here?” His voice cracked, his fear, his unease, finally breaking through to her.

She squinted at him, confused at his question, as if he should have been expecting Sansa fucking Stark to appear in his room in the middle of the bloody night. “You called for me,” she said, “I heard you. I felt it.”

This made no sense. Sandor stepped forward toward her, anger replacing fear. “What do you mean, you - ”, he made to grab for her shoulders, to shake her senseless until she made some sense. But as his hands reached for her slender shoulders, they closed on the empty air before him. He nearly fell forward.

She wasn’t there. There was _nothing_ there.

He made a sound of disgust deep in his throat, his breath came in short, stuttering bursts.

“What-“

Her eyes widened as she realized his panic, “No, don’t be frightened.”

“ _What are you?_ ” he heard himself growl.

“I’m here for _you_ ,” she pleaded.

“Get out. _Go!”_

And she vanished.

Sandor was alone again. 

He didn’t sleep for days after that. He didn’t tell Elder Brother. The man would think him truly mad if he did. Mayhap he was, mad. It wouldn’t be surprising, the things he’d lived through, the terror he’d seen, the near-death he had faced only a short time ago. 

But against his better judgement, his mind went of it’s own accord to think of her again - the her that he had seen in his cottage. With the shock of what happened, he hadn’t realized it at the time, but thinking back on it, it was obvious. She hadn’t been the little girl he had known in King’s Landing. She was taller, nearly meeting his shoulder. She’d grown into a true woman. He’d thought of her often that way before, but to see her standing before him, whether or not it was a trick of his mind, it was unlike anything he’d ever expected.

It took some more time, acceptance of the very possible fact that he had lost his mind, before he saw her again.

He lit the fire before he tried to sleep, as the nights were getting colder and he wanted to be able to see if he woke in the middle of the night - see who might be with him.

This time, there was no dream. There was no sleep. Only a few moments with his eyes closed as he sat on a chair in his cottage. He imagined the dream, the peacefulness of uncertainty that overwhelmed him. He felt ridiculous. He felt at peace. He opened his eyes.

“There you are,” she said smiling as she stood before him, only a few feet away. 

Sandor breathed in deep to keep his calm himself, forcing himself to relax his grip on his thighs. 

His voice was alien to him, and quiet, “Am I mad?”

Sansa shook her head, a warm and comforting smile on her perfect face, “You’re not mad.”

“But you’re not _here._ I’m just,” he tried to swallow, his throat dry, “I’m just imagining you are.”

She shook her head again, “I _am_ here.”

“ _How_?”

“I can’t explain it,” she was silent for a beat, “Do I need to?”

He took in the sight of her then. She wore a long night shift and held a homespun shawl over her shoulders. The fire caught the strands of copper, cinnamon and rust in her hair that tumbled loose and heavy over her chest. Her face was warm and kind, her nose fine, her lips full, and her eyes, clear and blue as the first day he saw her.

He shook his head. He didn’t care why or how she was there. Only that she was.

She relaxed a little more, and smiled fully. It was like a lance to the chest. 

“It’s alright, Sandor. You can talk to me.”

\- - - 

“I know she’s not really here.”

A clap of thunder punctuated his words, the wind bringing the first drops of rain into the doorway of the hermit’s hole. He didn’t care to move.

“Good,” Elder Brother said behind him, with obvious relief, “Thats all right them, hmm? Why don’t you talk to me about what has been - ”

“It’s not what you think,” Sandor said before he could stop himself. He turned on the old man and looked him directly in the eye, “I’m not mad. And it’s not my imagination. It’s something else.”

Elder Brother looked as if he was not expecting such a response, but he betrayed nothing else. “Come and sit down, Brother Sandor. Tell me.”

Sandor grit his teeth and did as he was bid.

“Tell me, Sandor. What do you believe is happening?”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just let the man think he was mad. It was better than the alternative. He shook his head. _Too late now._

“It’s her. I don’t know how. I can’t explain it. But it’s her.”

“ _Try_ to explain. For me,” he said with a light smile.

“I _know_ she’s not here. I don’t know where she actually is, but this,” he shook his head again, feeling utterly foolish hearing his thoughts aloud for the first time, “this _form_ of her that comes to me, it’s not all in my head. It can’t be. I got to thinking that it could be something else. Something that only her family can do. Gods know her sister wasn't normal. Or it could be something she’d learned from the old gods. She was always talking to her damned trees in King’s Landing. I thought this could have something to do with -”

“Sandor,” Elder Brother stopped him, “Do you ever think that this could just be your mind projecting a _desire_ to see her once more? Could it be possible?”

Sandor took a breath, “Of course.”

“If it really _is_ her, why didn’t she tell you where she is? Where her _body_ is?”

Sandor shook his head, “I don’t know.”

“Has she told you nothing of what has happened to her after fleeing King’s Landing?”

Sandor clenched his teeth, knowing at once he never should have said a thing. Sensitive, empathetic as he was, Elder Brother would never understand what it was like. He couldn’t even explain it in his own words.

“I hate to say it Sandor, but it is _my_ belief that this is just your mind seeing what it wants to see. It’s not your fault. Many a man have- ”

“That’s enough,” Sandor cut him off, “I know. You’re right.”

Elder Brother looked relieved, unenthused, but relieved all the same.

“Are you going to be alright? You know you can speak to me whenever the need arises.”

Sandor stood slowly, eager to be out of there, and nodded.

Elder Brother followed him to the door, “Would you like to move back into the cloisters with your other -“

“No,” Sandor cut him off again, “No, I,” he scratched at the back of his neck, feeling guilty for having put Elder Brother through another one of his worrying confessions. He felt sorry for the man, taking on the worries and fears of all the men on the isle. He never should have said a word. He sighed, “I’ll just go back to the cottage.”

Elder Brother nodded to him, “I understand. It’s raining, though,” he said unnecessarily with the noise of the storm penetrating from outside, “Would you like to wait until it dies down a little?”

Sandor turned and looked out the door. The wind was only picking up and the rain was falling sideways as the sky flashed threateningly in the night.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful,” Elder Brother said before Sandor stepped into the storm. He called after him, before he could get very far. “I’m afraid tomorrow will be a busy day for all of us Sandor, but for you especially.”

Sandor turned and squinted at him, his robes already drenched in the rain, “How’s that?”

“The storm! It’s going to wash up even more of the dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions, comments, thoughts, predictions, concerns, and/or exclamations, I would be so happy to hear from any and all of you.
> 
> I'm having fun writing this and I am eager to get to the end. Hope to finish within a week, but I will be taking tomorrow off as it is my birthday heeeey!
> 
> Okay thank you for reading bye.
> 
> Edit: Okay so I was writing this outside under a canopy. It started raining when I got to the Sandor/EB bit, and I SWEAR TO ALL THE OLD GODS as soon as I hit POST, the creepiest, longest, rolling clap of thunder came through. So fitting for this chapter (and for the one to come hehh).


	5. Chapter 5

The brown and dunn robes were good for keeping off the rain, but they held onto the damp for an irritatingly long time. Knowing it would be hell wearing damp robes in the morning, Sandor still couldn’t find it in himself to open the door to his cottage. He stood in the rain and the wind, knowing that when he opened the door, his cottage would be empty. With a crack of thunder that broke him from his reverie, he made himself open the door into the dark, cold and empty room.

He took off his dripping robe, laying it over the back of the chair to begin the long process of drying. His hands gripped into the back of the chair, knowing that if he wanted, he could break the thing to pieces with his bare hands. But he breathed in deep and closed his eyes, knowing that part of him was gone, dead and buried under the cairn in the lichyard.

He started a fire, more out of habit than out of need for warmth or light. There in the dark solitude of his cottage, amongst the storm raging outside, he knew there was nothing for him to see, nothing to feel.

He didn’t sleep, but fell into a half-conscious daze as he lay on the pallet. 

Sandor had never felt so foolish in all his damned life. 

He’d let himself be dulled into a sickly sweet sense of comfort, of safety. A feeling he’d never had in his life. He’d wanted it so badly that he created it all in his head. He didn’t know how he was going to look Elder Brother in the face ever again. Hells, he didn’t know how he was going to make it through the night with his own thoughts of shame and humiliation. However, those emotions were more preferable for him to dwell on than that of the loneliness that threatened to creep in through the cold ground beneath his pallet.

He knew she wasn’t real. _Of course_ he had known. It had been so good to let himself imagine she was. But now that he had no choice but to face that truth, the question he’d been trying not to think of invaded his mind: _if she wasn’t here, where in seven hells was she?_

There had been no word of her after her escape from King’s Landing after Joffrey’s murder. Sandor trusted Elder Brother to keep him informed if he heard anything. He had even come to him when that party led by that giant woman had come through in search of both Sansa and him. He almost laughed when Elder Brother told him the rumor going around, that he had stolen Sansa away for himself. 

He thought of her lying next to him as he slept. In a way, he supposed he had. 

He closed his eyes, the groan that erupted from his throat drowned out by the rumble of thunder from outside.

_Maybe she’s dead_. 

Well, if she was, then he wished for the same.

With the flash of lightening that followed, the room turned white behind his eyelids. And when he opened them again, she was there, standing, shivering in the center of the cottage, looking down at him.

Sandor gave a start, sat straight up and shook his head, “Please,” he shut his eyes, begging, _praying_ she would be gone when he opened them again, “Please just go. Leave me be. You’re not real.”

“It _is_ me, Sandor, _please_ ,” her voice shuttered and a chill ran through him, forcing his eyes open.

“Show me, then,” he grit his teeth, “Touch me.”

Sansa stepped forward and fell to her knees next to him, like she’d been waiting for him to say just that all along. He didn’t dare more, he couldn’t, he realized with a shock. He was afraid. 

It was only when she got close that he could see her clearly. She was soaking wet, rain dripped from the ends of her hair onto his lap as she bent close to him. She was shivering, either with cold or trepidation, he couldn’t be sure. She raised her hand to his face, her eyes full of hope, full of need. And for a second, just a second, he could have convinced himself that she was there. That this was all real. That he hadn’t lost his mind. But where her hand should have laid gently on the scars of his face, he felt nothing.

“No,” Sansa sobbed, looking utterly broken in the moment before she started to cry.

“You’re not real,” he repeated, shaking his head, backing away from her as much as he could on his pallet, “I’ve gone mad.”

She closed her eyes as the tears began to fall, she crumpled forward and buried her face in her hands.

“Why are you still here?” he roared at her, an echo of his reaction to fear in his past life, “Go! _Get out!_ ”

It had worked that first night he saw her, when he was so terrified he didn’t know what to think. He’d screamed at her and she’d vanished. But now, she didn’t go anywhere. There she stayed, crying on her knees next to him.

It was a nightmare. _An absolute nightmare._

Seeing nothing else to do, he closed his eyes and laid back down, turning his back to her. If he didn’t look at her, she would disappear. He was sure of it. He shivered now, listening to her cry behind him. It went against everything in him to turn his back on her. If she was there, if it were _really_ her, he would wrap her up in his arms, pull her onto his lap and hold her close until she calmed. But this was a nightmare after all, and he could do no such thing.

When she spoke again, she was close, right behind him, “I’m so cold, Sandor.”

Sandor’s heart froze in his chest at the sound of his name on her lips. He forced himself to turn to his other side to face her in the pallet, made even smaller now that she was laying on it beside him.

And with that, he gave up. He knew he should have been frightened out of his wits. He knew he should have run over to Elder Brother and beg him to rid this ghost from his head. But Sansa Stark laid next to him, trembling in the wet and cold, and he couldn’t warm her. He looked her in the eyes and she stared back into his. The thunder continued outside, the lightening striking right above their heads. The rain fell harder on the roof and it felt as though they were going to be swept away into the bay, as if such a thing were possible.

Sandor forced himself to stay calm, to find an easy pace of breathing, to keep the outright panic at bay, even as it scraped at him with it’s ugly claws from inside his stomach. 

Sansa was very pale, her lips becoming an unnatural shade of blue, but she watched him. She took deeper and deeper breaths, her tears slowly subsiding until her chest rose and fell with the same rhythm as his.

“I wish you were really here,” he didn’t know what made him say it, but it was the truth.

Her hand had stopped shaking and she watched it as her fingers hovered over the ruin of his face as she whispered, “I wish I could feel you.”

Sandor shut his eyes and swallowed. There was nothing more he wanted in the world than for this to be true. For Sansa to be real. For her to not be afraid of him. For her to _want_ to be there, safe, with him. But no, he wouldn’t let himself believe this was real, not anymore. She wasn’t there. She was lost to him and to the world.

He opened his eyes once more and asked her, “Where are you?”

She shook her head, “I don’t know,” and then the grief fell from her face, replaced suddenly by a hesitant but earnest look of hopefulness, “ _Find me_.”

\- - -

Sandor woke with a start. Blinking about the brightness of the room. It was morning. He was alone in his pallet. There was a knock at the door. He realized with a delay that it was the knocking that woke him up. 

“Brother Sandor,” it was Elder Brother, “Are you awake?” 

Sandor rubbed a hand over his face.

“It was a dream. Just a fucking nightmare,” he muttered to himself. He placed a hand on the furs next to him to help stand himself up. He gave a start at the dampness of the blankets, knowing full well that he had been dry before he laid down, but pushed the thought away, not giving himself another chance to think on it.

Sandor stood and walked over to the door, opening it with one swift movement. He narrowed his eyes at the wash of bright light and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. 

Elder Brother stood at his doorstep. “I hope you’ve had your rest last night,” he muttered, a regretful look on his face, “I’m afraid I was right about the storm.” 

And with that, he turned and gestured to the shore at the bottom of the hill. Sandor took in the scene, not with shock and horror that he knew he should have felt, but with an air of indifference.

_The battle against Stannis on the Blackwater,_ he thought, _the night I left King’s Landing, the night I left_ her _._

That was the last time he’d seen so many bodies lying dead in the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patching this thing up in the next chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you for reading :)
> 
> P.S. if we're not already friends on tumblr, find me @ fancykidmd - I always post updates for my fics there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Sandor had begun digging as soon as he was able to slip on his boots, glad to have the distraction of such demanding work so he wouldn’t have to think about the trick his mind had played on him last night. He had needed help today, though. Two other brothers were working on holes of their own. Elder Brother said three mass graves should be enough. To dig a hole for each one of the bodies lying on the shore would have taken several days. Sandor worked fast. The sun was high, and with the way the bodies were lining up, he knew it was only a matter of time before the stench came to him upwind.

Death was nothing new to Sandor. He’d been killing since he was little more than a child. It had been quite some time since he took a life, but with digging graves, he supposed it would always be a part of him. He didn’t mind it. He never had. Corpses, after a while, he noted, all started to look the same. 

Waterlogged corpses, though, were a different story.

Elder Brother was convinced there was a wreck that did the majority of these people in. But Sandor had seen some of the men before they were wrapped up in shrouds and lined up for burial. Some were so _rotten_ \- the skin shedding off of their limbs in grey ribbons, their faces unrecognizable as such, and eyes fish-eaten away - _those_ men, he knew, had been in the water for some time. It was just the storm that turned them up at the base of the isle during the night.

And what a night it had been. Hell on the water, and hell inside the supposed comfort of his lonely cottage.

It was hard to try and forget what had happened last night, the way Sansa of his imagination had appeared to him was unlike any other time before. He could _feel_ her fear casting off of her as she lay shaking in the cold beside him. But he knew now, in the light of morning, it must have been his own. 

\- -

Sandor’s back ached as the sun began to set. He rested heavily on the handle of his spade as Elder Brother prepared to pray for _these_ _poor souls_ , twenty one in total, that washed to the shore in the night. 

_It was a tragedy_ , Elder Brother had been saying, but Sandor stopped listening. There was nothing in him that cared. All he wanted was to find a cask of mead and drown _himself_ in it. It was the only way he’d be able to ever get to sleep again, he was certain.He was just figuring out how he could slip away from the service early to do just that, when a gust of wind irritatingly blew his hood right off of his head.

Sandor looked up at that, and in the distance, right by where Elder Brother stood among the shrouded corpses, was a flash of color. He squinted at the sight. One of the shrouds had been blown back by the same gust of wind to reveal the uncovered head of one of the bodies. It was red, the hair. In the sunset light, he realized with a sinking feeling, that it was a shade he knew very well.

Sandor moved before his mind completed the thought. It was _impossible_. It _couldn’t_ be. And yet everything in him was screaming that it was. He could feel the mens’ faces on his back as he broke through their ranks. He ignored all of them. He moved past Elder Brother, the man stuttering with the unexpected interruption, before he ultimately went quiet and watched, too.

Sandor stood at the side of the body, never taking his eyes off of the spray of copper that fanned over the ground. He fell to his knees, not even registering the jolt of pain the action brought on. The face was still partially covered by the shroud. But he knew. He _knew_. 

With shaking hands, he pulled back the shroud to uncover the rest of her face. 

There was a time when he was a boy, before he was properly trained, that he had been knocked clean off of the horse he was riding. He’d fallen flat on his back to the ground below. With the force of the blow, his breath left him. That was a bit, he thought, what seeing Sansa Stark lying dead before him felt like.

A queer sound erupted from his throat, something between a sob and a choke, when the air left him. He fell forward, folding over the new hole that had opened in his chest. And somehow, her face was between his hands. She was there. This was real. He could touch her now.

Her skin, it was so soft. So white and smooth, like porcelain. His thumb traced over the blueness of her bottom lip, slightly parted. If it wasn’t for the purple-brown gash above her left eye, and that fact that she was so, _so_ very cold, she could have been asleep. He’d seen it dozens of times now, lying next to her in the quiet reprieve that was his cottage, or the darkness of his suffering and lonely mind. And here she was in front of him, her face between his hands. He was finally, _finally_ able to touch her.

_I’m so cold, Sandor._

So she had told him last night. And he realized - _it was her._ It had been her the entire time. Even when he dreamt of her in his sick and fevered dreams. That had been real, too, when she pulled him out of his sickened haze. When she told him to _wake up_. She was real. 

He felt both vindicated for having been right and guilty for ever having doubted her in the first place.

_Find me_ , she had begged him. Well, he did, but he was too late.

He was vaguely aware that there was another presence behind him. Elder Brother. “Brother Sandor, what are you -” and he heard the man’s gasp when he saw the girl’s face, immediately recognizing her as Sandor had, given all he had told the man about her. “ _No_ , Sandor,” incredulity seeping from his gentle voice, “It can’t be - is it -” Sandor’s nod cut off the rest of the question. The rest of him remained as unmoving as she was as he held her cold face between his hands. There was a part of him that registered Elder Brother was moving from behind him to the other side of her body to kneel down beside him. Sandor still held her face in his hands, ready to jump in the hole he had made himself. He thought he might be sick. He thought he might lose his mind. He thought he might… _have felt something_.

He froze, ignoring Elder Brother’s hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away. _Yes. There it was again._ In her neck, right under her jaw where he held her, against his palm, there was a little thrum against his palm. A weak, faint, thing, but it was an inarguable sign that she was - 

“ _Alive_ ,” he whispered to himself. He looked up at Elder Brother across from him on the other side of her, interrupting the man’s prayer to the Mother. “She’s alive!” He rasped out from behind his cowl.

Elder Brother gave nothing more than a widening of the eyes before he got to work. “Move aside,” he said, brushing Sandor’s hands away from her. Sandor sat back on his heels, his fingers digging into the ground on either side of him.

Elder Brother felt underneath her jawline, the same spot Sandor had felt her heart beat for him. He waited a moment, two, and then looked at Sandor, his eyes all but popping out of his head. “She is, but _barely_.”

Sandor’s chest heaved, “ _Do something!_ ”

Elder Brother put an ear to her lips, listening. He must have heard something, because what followed was a strange series of movements. Elder Brother pressed his lips to hers and breathed into her mouth. He pulled back, put his hands on her chest, and pressed several times. Sandor watched this strange dance, knowing that it had to work, not knowing what he would do if it didn’t. The crowd of brothers had gathered around them by this point. It must have been quite a sight, a sworn silent brother shouting in the face of their leader. Sandor wanted to roar at them to bugger off, to give her space. Another part of him, deep inside, hoped that they were praying.

Several minutes of the same, of Sandor grinding his teeth to dust in his mouth, and there was no change. Elder Brother sat back, shoulders sagged with exhaustion, shaking his head solemnly. 

Sandor shook his head and leaned over her once more, holding her face between his hands and he bent close to her, closing his eyes. He remembered her in his dream. The first time he’d seen her, when he was ready to give up, ready to let go and end the fight. It wasn’t over. It hadn’t been for him, and it wouldn’t be for her. “Wake up,” he heard himself say. He swallowed and opened his eyes, fully expecting hers to be looking back at him. But they were still closed. _No_. This wasn’t an option. Giving up was _not_ an option. Perhaps it was for Elder Brother, but not for her. A shudder of rage roiled through him, all the way from the bottom of his stomach. It came out in a rasping, desperate growl, just inches from her face, “Gods _damn_ you, little bird. _Wake up!_ ”

Bloodshot and blue, her eyes snapped open.

In the second that Sandor released her as if she was made of dragonfire, she bolted upright, into the waiting arms of Elder Brother. He turned her to the side as Sandor fell back on his heels. She coughed, and water poured from her lungs onto the ground beside her. Sandor’s eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open behind the cowl over his face. Elder Brother held her up as she retched and heaved, half of the bay expelling violently from her slight frame. Soon, there was nothing left, but she still heaved and spat, clutching Elder Brother’s arm fiercely enough to leave a mark the fabric of his robe. The man paid no mind to any discomfort she must have caused, using his free hand to pat her back and calm her as her heaving slowed. When she found her breath again, Sandor did too.

“That’s it, _that’s_ it,” Elder Brother murmured soothingly to her as he tried to lay her back down, but Sansa was not cooperating. She let go of Elder Brother with a start and backed away from him, her hands bracing her on either side. She was barely able to hold herself up. Sandor watched as she blinked wildly at sunlight, her head swiveling in either direction, her breathing fast and heavy. Slowly, somehow, Sandor was able to remove himself from the situation and see things from her muddied point of view. She had _drowned_. And now she was surrounded by dozens of strange, robed men, all identically menacing in their hoods and cowls. To her right and left, were the clear outlines of dead bodies wrapped in shrouds. The same shroud that covered her now from the waist down. _She’s panicking_ , he realized, watching her shoulders rise and fall with each frantic breath. _She’s going to faint._

But then he was there, his hands braced on her shoulders. She flinched, but he didn’t let her back away. “You’re safe, little bird, you’re safe. I promise.”

Sandor didn’t think she could look any more frightened that she already had been, but with his words, he realized too late, he’d raised a whole new alarm.

“ _W-what_ ,” she coughed out, her voice nothing more than a painful, whispered rasp, “ _what_ did you say?”

And then he realized. His hood. His cowl. She hadn’t seen it was him. Another thought ran through him - what if she recognized him anyway, by his voice, by his words, and that was what scared her? But _no_ , it _had_ been her that was in his room, that came to him each night. It had been her that spoke to him. It had been her that wanted so terribly to be held by him. He knew it as clearly as he knew that fire burned. She would not be afraid. 

He brought his left hand back to his hood and pulled it down. Her eye twitched as she watched him, her breathing coming more even now. He pulled the cowl away, slowly, never taking his eyes off of hers. When his face was bare, she gasped, her bloodshot eyes going wide. It was soft and rasping, and only he and Elder Brother were close enough to hear it.

Sandor felt the breath leave her and her shoulders fell beneath his hands. Before he was aware of what was happening, she raised her left hand and it was hovering over the scars on his face. He was made of stone, unable to move even if he wanted. There was a part of him that expected her hand to move right through him, just as it had last night when she tried the same thing. But then he blinked with a start as he felt a slight, featherlight touch on the left side of his face.

She was there. Even though he knew now that she had somehow been _real_ the whole time, she was _there_.

Her words were so faint that if he hadn’t seen her lips move, he wouldn’t have been sure she’d said it at all. But from the corner of his eye, he saw Elder Brother stare at him - wide-eyed with the complete awe and understanding at Sansa’s words - that all Sandor had said had been true.

Sandor felt her thumb wipe something away from beneath his eye, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips as she whispered, “I _knew_ it.”

When Sansa _did_ faint at that, at least she was in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING THIS LITTLE CREEPY THING. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and bookmarks, and especially for the few of you that were compelled to comment. I hate to say it, but seeing visual feedback is a way to get me to write, whether that feedback be good or bad, it really does encourage me to sit down and get to work - so I LOVE you all, and thank you for sitting in for this one with me.
> 
> I don't think I will continue this. If you know me, you know I love a good cliffhanger, and I wouldn't want to ruin this story by dragging it off into a never ending jumbled mess like most of my other stories become.
> 
> Speaking of other stories, if you feel so inclined, check out my other WIP - Never Going Back Again - it is an AU, and it is much more cheerful than this little guy, for now anyway.
> 
> Thank you again for being here and for checking this story out. Love you all!! Let me know what you think!!


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